


Extraction Point

by eeyore9990



Series: Porn for Inspiration [3]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 17:00:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2515097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a voice he’s come to know and obey with every piece of himself. He trusts that voice in his ear to guide him through situations that should kill him. For it to surround him now is a precious gift that he’s not going to question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Extraction Point

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QHolmes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QHolmes/gifts).



> For Alexandre00Q/QHolmes, who reached her first checkpoint in Porn for Inspiration. 
> 
> Her prompt: Dom Q/sub Bond but Bond is still Bond in every single way we know and love, it’s just Q that has the pleasure in more than one way to see that side of James.

"Double Oh Seven." 

The voice in his ear, calm and steady, pulls James back to himself. Stepping smoothly away from the body staring lifelessly at the sky, he polices his brass and scuffs the ground in three points opposite where he'd been standing when he shot the man. Sliding his gun into the holster at the small of his back, he twitches his jacket closed, slides the button into its hole, and strides out of the marketplace, his steps certain, cadence unrushed. He's moving to the side to let the rushing guards pass him, his face showing the same curiosity of the pedestrians around him -- just another foreign gentleman going about his business, nothing to see here -- when the voice comes again, still steady, but with an undertone of a bite. 

" _Bond_. Report."

James bends to aid a little girl whose doll was knocked from her hands by one of the guards. "All is well." He smiles at the girl, patting her on the head as he stands again, cover maintained. 

"Return to the extraction point."

James brings his wrist up, allowing a frown to crease his brow as he pushes a button. Q's face appears, his glasses settled perfectly across his nose and only a small portion of his wild mop captured by the camera. Pity. "Have I missed my meeting time again?" James asks, his muttered tone that of a scatter-brained businessman speaking to himself before dropping his wrist to his side and hurrying his pace. He'll need to circle the city at least once to identify any hangers on.

"Your extraction is being coordinated. Await further instructions, Double Oh Seven." 

Dipping his chin in a nod that he knows Q will see -- either through some object he's managed to affix to James' lapel or through spy satellites or… _however_ he does it -- James ducks down a narrow alley that connects to another busy street running parallel to the one he'd been on. Three more switchbacks and half an hour later, James steps smoothly from a cab in front of his hotel, offering a folded over bill through the window that will provide enough of a tip not to draw attention either way. 

The purpose of being a Double Oh in MI6 is to carry out Her Majesty's work whilst remaining invisible. It's an art James has perfected over the years. He's shaved his appearance down to as bland and unmemorable as possible, though Q has been urging him toward coloured contacts on his last few missions. 

Brown, he says. 

James is considering it, moreso after the woman this morning who'd remarked on his own colour. Her murmured, " _such lovely, icy eyes_ " had made him stiffen before he'd been able to offer her a compliment of his own. Brown might truly be a nice colour to disappear behind. James pushes the up arrow for the elevator before ducking into the stairwell and jogging up the stairs instead.

He pauses before the door to his room -- 2 _007_ because someone has a sense of humour -- keycard held too far from the electronic reader for it to register. There are too many cameras in the hall for him to pull his gun, but his shoulder blades are itching. There's no sign of disturbance, no untoward noise, but he _knows_ someone is in his room. 

Releasing a breath, he opens the door and pushes it flush against the interior wall in one quick motion before entering and closing the door behind him, covering his back. His gun is in his hand before the latch engages completely, and he edges along the wall, eyes trained on the mirror screwed into place above the standard hotel dresser. In it he sees a reflection that is… improbable.

"Q?"

Q hums but doesn't look up, working on something at the small computer table. He finishes what he's doing, then closes the laptop he's using before turning and cocking his head the tiniest bit. James knows he's seen everything, from the moment James entered the hotel. He knew a gun was trained on him, likely knew down to the grain of the powder providing the force that would be behind the bullet as it left the chamber. But he's still as cool and calm as ever. "Double Oh Seven. Instincts not yet dulled by age, I see." 

James can't control the tightening of his lips that gives away his humour to Q's sharp-eyed gaze. "Not quite. This is a pleasant surprise."

Q inclines his head, acknowledging James' words, before approaching with his hand out, palm up. "Weapon."

James hits the button on the magazine, then clears the round from the chamber and removes the spent brass from his pocket, turning the lot over to Q, who inspects them before gently placing them in a case for storage. 

"Shoes." 

Settling onto the stiffly-cushioned seat of the lone chair in the room that still holds the warmth from Q's recent possession, James bends from the waist, untying his black shoes, pulling them from his feet, and handing them to Q, who stores them in another case. Ah. They _had_ been engineered, then. James had wondered.

"Jacket," "watch," "vest," and "trousers," are the following commands, then a final, "ear piece," leaving James standing before Q in his socks, shirt, and pants. Q steps in front of him, brilliant gaze dragging along every inch of James' body before meeting his gaze and nodding. "Well done, James." 

Hearing his given name in that voice has the tension leaking out of James all at once, and he stands before Q, pliant and easy. 

"Kneel." 

James goes down smooth, the twinges that accompany his many years of hard service not even a ping on his radar. A breath leaves him as he hits the carpet, and in it is the sound of all the pent-up frustration and _tension_ that underscores every mission. Q steps forward, hands sliding into the back of James' hair and tugging until he tips his head forward, pressing it to Q's hip. Q's voice is a low murmur of unintelligible sounds, meant to soothe his soul more than his mind. 

It's a voice he's come to know and obey with every piece of himself. He trusts that voice in his ear to guide him through situations that should kill him. For it to surround him now is a precious gift that he's not going to question.

"James?" Fingers lift his chin, and he's looking up the length of Q's starched shirt to see the man himself staring down at him, glasses slipped down his nose a centimetre so that the place they usually rest is a red line above the nose piece. His face is blank, betraying no emotion. But his eyes blaze with everything the rest of his body has been trained not to reveal. "Status?"

James answers without thought. "Ready."

"I need more than that, James." Q's lips quirk at one corner, and James' gaze zeroes in on it, hyperfocused, the lines it creates in that youthful face absolutely fascinating to him in this moment.

Eyes sliding closed as a soft breath escapes, James feels his own lips twitch in response. " _Eager_."

"Very good." Q's fingers fall away and James feels the air grow cooler as Q steps backward. "Remove your shirt." When James reaches for the tie still knotted precisely at his throat, Q says, voice pitched deeper, more throaty, "Slowly. We have three hours 'til extraction, and I'd like to enjoy myself."

**Author's Note:**

> I should probably confess that I know nothing of 00Q or Bond fandom in general. This fic is my first foray into the world of British counterintelligence and as such, likely rife with errors. I apologize in advance for any clumsiness.
> 
> Also, "policing one's brass" is a term for picking up/removing spent bullet casings/shells after firing a self-ejecting firearm. It could very well be utterly American in origin. Any Brits out there know if there's a better/more correct term?


End file.
